


Hearth-Cakes

by syrupwit



Category: Pyre (Video Game)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-18
Updated: 2020-04-18
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:48:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23719231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/syrupwit/pseuds/syrupwit
Summary: It had been almost a fortnight since Jodariel ascended.
Comments: 5
Kudos: 23
Collections: Flash In The Pan: A Food Flash Exchange





	Hearth-Cakes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Shadaras](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadaras/gifts).



“I don’t think I did this right,” said Fae to herself.

The last hour’s work sat like a stone among the ashes, dark and lumpy-looking in the moonlight. She poked it with a stick, trying to move it from the still-smoldering embers, but could not budge it. She considered fishing it out with her hands, but the hearth-cake was too hot to touch. Perhaps she could impale the cake on a sharper stick or get it with one of the cooking knives? But the others were asleep by now and she would surely wake them up if she tried… She wouldn’t like to spoil the surprise.

It had been almost a fortnight since Jodariel ascended. The Nightwings were camped to await direction from the stars. While they consoled one another as well as they could, it was hard for everyone to deal with Jodariel’s absence, and the mood in the blackwagon swung between hopefulness and grief. Stuck between the success of their first Liberation Rite and the uncertainty of the path ahead, everyone had more time than they liked to spend thinking.

It was true that Hedwyn did most of the cooking. When Jodariel still traveled with them, she had cooked only on occasion, and usually then in the most pragmatic way possible. A few times, though, she had made hearth-cakes in the ashes of their campfire. Jodariel’s hearth-cakes were wonderful. They were soft and chewy and fragrant, satisfying without being heavy, and the caprices of flame lent them an appealingly toasty crust. Jodariel made them with acorn flour and powdered roots, sometimes ground nuts or oats if she had them. There was a dried fungus powder that she used for leavening, unique to the Downside. The texture, if not the flavor, reminded Fae of something she’d eaten as a very young child, though she couldn’t remember what. She had told Jodariel that, and Jodariel had made hearth-cakes for her again the next night.

For the past five nights in a row, Fae had stolen out after Hedwyn let the fire die to try her hand at making hearth-cakes. Each attempt yielded a similar outcome. The cakes burned, or they didn’t cook through the middle, or they turned into rocks of hard, dense dough. Why didn’t they work? What did she keep doing wrong? Was it the will of the Scribes not only that Jodariel should ascend and leave Fae behind, but also that she and the other exiles would never eat hearth-cakes again?

The Reader staggered from the blackwagon in a daze of scholarship and found Fae crying.

* * *

When Volfred Sandalwood joined their number, so had his library. While the cycle was in motion, the Reader had been too busy or intimidated to sift through the volumes that did not pertain to the Rites specifically, but these quiet weeks had lent them the time and restedness to start.

As Fae snuck handfuls of acorn flour and despaired over failed hearth-cakes, the Reader had surveyed three new books: a speculative atlas of the river leading to the Downside; meditations on the softer dreams of Time-Singer Harn, collected two centuries after his defeat; and a set of loosely bound pages that turned out to contain recipes. Among the last, some recipes were mystical, some medical, and some merely culinary. The hand in which they were written ranged from a near contemporary with the Book of Rites to a more modern, flowing script. Though many of the recipes and the ingredients that they called for were unknown to the Reader, others were less arcane. For example, one recipe concerned a type of bread baked in ashes, leavened with the dried, powdered bodies of a common mushroom.

* * *

“A cookbook?” Rukey was dubious.

“Isn’t it wonderful?” The following day saw Fae far cheerier. She and Ti’Zo had been conducting a sort of scavenger hunt all morning, and the ground around them was littered with interesting prizes: mushrooms, flowers, acorns, young leaves, a large root with an appealing bulk. Sir Gilman had been enlisted to retrieve flat stones from a nearby stream, and Pamitha was digging up more roots with her talons. In the grass a few yards away, Volfred, Tariq, Hedwyn, and the Reader sat in a hushed conference.

“If you say so, sister.” Rukey wrinkled his nose to indicate that, although he respected the Scribes and appreciated the skills of their Reader, he had reservations about using books to cook. A slight twitch of his ears added that his doubts would not prevent him from tasting the results.

Rukey need not have worried. For two days and two nights Fae and the Reader labored, aided at intervals by Hedwyn’s expertise or with advice from Tariq, and on the third day there was a feast.

There were hearth-cakes, not as good as Jodariel’s but with enough promise that the prospect of improving them seemed pleasurable rather than dejecting. There were fish roasted in aromatic leaves, courtesy of Ti’Zo and the wagon imps. There was a salad of herbs and edible flowers, peppery and light. Baked roots were enlivened by a touch of some ancient seasoning Hedwyn had unearthed from the blackwagon, and a dish of sauteed mushrooms disappeared in half the scant time it had taken to prepare. To drink, there was a floral tisane that refreshed the palate as it turned the mind toward finer things. Pamitha had also lent some of her moonshine to a spicy herbal concoction that perfectly complemented its bite.

The Nightwings ate and drank happily. The solemnity of their camp, the sorrow dogging their preparations, fell away in favor of unfettered celebration. As their stomachs filled and evening deepened into night, they continued to gather around the fire. Tariq got out his instrument and sang new songs, including one that was almost cheerful. Even the stars seemed to glitter more brightly—not singularly, but as a whole—while the exiles enjoyed each other’s company.

Warmed by the moonshine cocktail, comfortably full, Fae lay in the grass and felt cared for. The Scribes were looking out for her. There was a point to things she did, even when she couldn’t see it. She felt lucky to be among the Nightwings and excited about the journey ahead, however long it took and wherever she ended up. The glow in the sky, the wisdom in the tattered books, the smells of food and campfire, and the chatter of her companions: these factors swelled and twined to wrap her in a haze of contentment and hope.

Perhaps Fae would see Jodariel again someday, and be the one to make hearth-cakes for _her._


End file.
